Read an Excerpt

Beyond the Blue

Random House

Chapter One

Chapter 1
Gen sat cross-legged on her bed, clenching her fist around the figurine of the Vietnamese girl, digging her fingernails into her palm. Tomorrow her mother would leave for Vietnam. Gen closed her eyes.
Bombs exploded. Jungles burned. The Viet Cong marched toward Saigon. Nhat cried-all alone-in the orphanage.
Her eyes flew open.
She hadn't been afraid when her mother traveled to the country a year ago. But now Gen was older; now she was nine; now she knew to be frightened.
Where was Mom? Her mother tucked her into bed every night. What was taking her so long?
Gen opened her hand. The figurine's dark eyes shone above her tiny nose and lifelike smile; carved braids framed her face. She wore a red tunic and pants and held a miniature wooden doll.
"Time for bed!" Mom hurried into the room.
Mama. Gen squeezed her hand shut again, completely covering the carving.
Her mother sat next to Gen and pulled her close. "You're going to be the best big sister ever."
The red fluid in Gen's lava lamp bubbled and cast a glow over her mom's face. She was going to Vietnam to bring Nhat home; Gen would finally be a sister.
Her mom smoothed Gen's dark hair back from her forehead. Her touch was gentle. "Are you worried about anything?"
Gen bit her lower lip and reached for her mother's hand, holding it tight.
"About myleaving? About Nhat coming home to live with us?" Her mom leaned her cheek against the top of Gen's head.
Gen snuggled closer. They had been waiting all year for the paperwork to be approved so they could adopt Nhat. She pictured her new little brother holding a bowl of rice, his only meal for the day.
"Mom?"
"What, sweetheart?"
"Does Nhat use chopsticks?"
Her mom smiled. "I don't think so. He's only two."
Photos of Nhat hung on the refrigerator. He was only a year old when the pictures were taken; he was Amerasian with light skin and wavy hair, and he peered at Mom with adoring eyes and a big smile. In one picture, his hands were entwined in her long, dark hair.
"Will you teach him to use chopsticks?"
Her mother's cheek still rested on Gen's head. "Yes."
"And me?"
"And you, Genni." Genevieve was her given name. Mama was the only one who called her Genni.
Gen slowly opened her hand. The carving was part of a family of place-card holders that her mother bought last year in the open-air market in Saigon. "When will we use these?" Gen ran her finger along the slit that would hold a card in the girl's back.
"When we have special dinners. Birthdays and holidays." Her mom laughed a little. "You'll see. I'll cook more than Hamburger Helper when I get home. Things will calm down. I'll spend all my time taking care of you and Nhat."
"Tell me about Vietnam." Gen settled her head onto her pillow and stretched out her legs, holding the girl in her open palm. Her mother had lived in Vietnam in 1961, when she was twenty-one, after graduating from nurses' training. Gen never tired of hearing about her adventures.
"It was the most amazing year of my life." Her mother stroked Gen's hair as she spoke. "I lived in a hut with a thatched roof on a mission compound. I picked mangoes, coconuts, and bananas off the trees outside my door. I ate pho, noodle soup, for breakfast. Geckos scampered up the walls of my room and kept me company through the muggy nights. I made friends with a Vietnamese nurse named Kim, whom I love like a sister. I took care of people with leprosy who were missing fingers and toes, noses and ears."
"Why didn't you stay in Vietnam?"
"A doctor, a missionary, and a nurse were captured by the Viet Cong when I was home on furlough. My mission organization didn't think I should return. Then I married your father. Then we had you." Her mother smiled. Gen's dad was eleven years older than her mom, but his age didn't make him seem old, it made her mother seem young. They had met when her mom spoke at his church. Gen closed her hand over the figurine.
Mom put her hand over Gen's and squeezed. "But I could never stop thinking about Vietnam; it was in my blood. That's why I raised money and collected supplies for the orphans and hospitals. That's why I went to Vietnam last year to work in the orphanage and help other people adopt. That's why we're adopting Nhat."
"I want to go with you." Gen reached for her mother's hand. She wanted to go even though she would be afraid. She didn't want her mother to go alone.
"I know." Gen's mom squeezed her fingers. "It's too dangerous right now. Maybe we can go together someday." She let go of Gen's hand. "Try to keep your room clean while I'm gone. You know how much it bothers Daddy when it's messy."
Gen nodded.
"And be nice to Aunt Marie. She loves you. I know she can be harsh, but remember she's hurting. She means well."
Gen nodded again. Aunt Marie was her father's sister; she would stay with Gen after school while Mom was gone. Her husband had died six months before, and sometimes it seemed that Aunt Marie was angry at everybody because of it. She criticized Gen's mother's housekeeping and cooking, Gen's schoolwork and hair. Nothing felt right when Aunt Marie was around.
"Sally," Gen's father called to her mother from the hallway, "you still have to finish packing, and we have to get up early to take you to the airport."
"G'night, sweetheart." Gen's mom leaned toward her. "Always remember how much I love you. Remember to trust God; that's how you can show your faith. Remember that all things work together for good." Her mother unclasped the gold chain of the jade cross that she wore and fastened it around Gen's neck, kissing her forehead.
"I want you to wear this until I get back." It was the only jewelry her mother ever wore besides her plain gold wedding band. Gen set aside the figurine and fingered the smooth, cool cross.
Her mom pulled her close and kissed her forehead. Gen breathed in her mother's lilac scent. She touched the green stone again as her mother hugged her tight.
Before she fell asleep, Gen padded down the hall to the bathroom. As she passed her parents' bedroom, she overheard them talking. Her father's voice was deep and serious. "Sally, it's a war zone over there."
"We've waited long enough. If I don't go now, we may never get Nhat out. What will happen to him?"
"Then I should go." Her dad sounded worried.
Gen took a step closer to the door. Daddy wants to go to Vietnam? A suitcase lay open on the bed. A stack of disposable diapers leaned against it.
"No, Marshall, it will be much easier for me."
Her father sat down on the edge of the bed. "I want this to be over. I want you to stop caring so much. We can continue to support the missionaries there, but I want you here with us. I don't want you going back."
"I doubt that there will be missionaries to support in Vietnam after this, not with the Viet Cong marching toward Saigon." Gen's mother picked up the diapers and wedged them into the suitcase. "The Communists will kick them out. There won't be much I can do after this either. It's my last chance."
Her father put his head in his hands. Her mother turned toward the door. Gen ducked around the corner and into the bathroom.
"Genni, go to bed," Mama called after her with a tired voice. "I'll check on you in a minute."

On her mother's sixth day in Vietnam, Gen sat beside her father on the mauve couch in the den and watched the CBS Evening News. A man wearing a khaki vest reported that the first planeload of babies had taken off from the Saigon airport. President Ford had given his blessing. Operation Babylift was under way.
"They're on that plane! Your mama and Nathaniel are coming home!" Her father called the boy Nathaniel; her mother called him Nhat.
Gen shook the Etch A Sketch she held on her lap, halfway erasing the staircase she had created. Mama and Nhat were coming home!
"That's the way it is, Thursday, April 3, 1975," Walter Cronkite said.
That's the way it is. The words comforted her. Life couldn't be helped; it happened. There was no way to change it; that's just the way it was. But this was good news, not the bad news of the war with pictures showing naked children running from bombs, soldiers with cigarettes dangling out of their mouths and sadness in their eyes, and protesters screaming into the camera. No, this was good news. These babies had families waiting for them, and Mom and Nhat were on the plane!
"You need a haircut." Her father peered down as if he hadn't really seen Gen for six days. But she didn't want a haircut. She wanted to grow it long, like her mom's. Gen's dark brown hair was tangled at the nape of her neck. Her mother usually braided it every morning before school. Gen had tried to keep it brushed, but still the tangles grew. Her father smiled at her affectionately, his gray eyes twinkling under his bushy eyebrows and full head of graying hair. Long sideburns framed his face.
He gazed around the dark, paneled den and then back to Gen. "Things will get back to normal now. We'll be a family again. You'll see." Piles of papers leaned against each other on the coffee table, and clean clothes covered the vinyl hassock. Her father liked order. He said it was in his blood, from his German father. He stood and turned the knob on the Zenith television; the screen faded to a dark olive green.
"I'm hungry," Gen said.
"Then I'll make some eggs." Daddy headed toward the kitchen. He hummed softly, which made Gen happy. They were going to be a family again; Mama was on the way home.


Gen stabbed at her egg and watched the yolk run onto the white Corelle plate. Her father always cooked the eggs just right. Nhat's highchair with the red and blue plaid vinyl seat waited for him in the corner, and Gen imagined lifting him up to the chair and fitting the metal tray into the slots.
The phone rang. Her father jumped from the table, bumping his knee against the corner, and dashed to pick up the receiver.
"Hello," he said. "Sally, is it you? Where are you? The line is bad. Can you hear me?"
How can Mom be calling if she's on the plane?
Daddy cradled the receiver of the pink princess phone between his chin and shoulder and grabbed a pen and notepad off the desk. He leaned against the counter, the pen poised on the paper.
"You didn't get on the plane? You're still in Saigon?" He stood straight and took two steps to the center of the kitchen.
Gen took a deep breath and held it.
"You think you can get her out too?" He frowned as he talked, and his voice was stern. "You went to get Nathaniel out, not someone you worked with over a decade ago."
Gen chewed on her bottom lip, trying not to cry. She wanted her mama to come home.
"Sally, I'm telling you. Get on that plane tomorrow with Nathaniel," he pleaded. "For the love of God, for the love of us, get out of there."
Daddy's salt-and-pepper eyebrows rose in question marks. He was quiet for a minute. "No, no, I admire you for wanting to help her. But think of Nathaniel. Don't risk him. Don't risk everything we have."
He was silent for another minute, and then his questions riddled the room. "What? Nathaniel is on the plane? The plane with all of the orphans? The one that flew out today? You put Nathaniel on the plane alone?" Her father turned and flung the pen onto the counter. "Promise me, Sally. Promise me you'll get out on the next flight." He stepped away from Gen and pulled the cord tight.
He fell silent as Mama spoke on the other end, nodding as if she could see him. As if she stood in the room with them. "Okay, okay," he finally said. "We love you. We need you. Remember that. Just come home."
Gen reached for the phone. She wanted to hear her mother's voice; she wanted to tell Mama that she loved her too. But her father slammed down the receiver with a clatter as Gen's hand hung in midair.
"Nathaniel's on the plane coming out. Your mother stayed another day. She's trying to help her friend Kim. They worked together at the mission. Your mom found her in Saigon."
"When will we get Nathaniel?" Gen asked.
Her father shook his head. "I don't know. The plane will land in San Francisco. Maybe he'll stay in the Bay Area until Mama gets there. Maybe someone will escort him to Seattle or here to Portland." He shrugged. "We'll have to see how it all works out."

Gen hurried down the stairs the next morning, dressed in her new bell-bottoms and her paisley blouse, ready for school. It was Friday. Perhaps on Saturday they would drive to Seattle and pick up Nhat. Maybe Mom would be there by then too. Her heart raced at the thought.
Her father sat frozen on a chair in the middle of the kitchen, the pink phone balanced on his knee, the receiver pressed against his ear. He wore his gray-striped flannel pajamas, and he hadn't shaved. Why wasn't he ready for work?
Gen walked into the den and turned on the morning news. She watched a Tide commercial and then heard the words "Tragedy in Vietnam." She moved closer to the TV. A plane, loaded with babies, had crashed at Saigon's Tan Son Nhut Airport; the first plane had landed in San Francisco. The newscaster said that the South Vietnamese officials couldn't confirm why the plane had crashed, but authorities were investigating the possibility of a missile attack by the Viet Cong.
She sat down on the shag carpet and stared at the dark paneling that covered the walls until her father came into the den and turned off the TV.
"You saw?" His face appeared almost gray, the craggy lines around his eyes deeper than usual.
She nodded, biting her lip.
He folded his body down to the floor and sat beside her. "The call was from the U.S. Embassy. Mama died in the crash." He put one arm around her and squeezed her tightly. Gen fell against him. Mom dead? Not her mama.

Continues...

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Excerpted from Beyond the Blue by Leslie Gould Excerpted by permission.
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